


Surrender

by Gallicenae



Series: Misc Fic Gifts [9]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 18:05:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallicenae/pseuds/Gallicenae
Summary: "To trust is sometimes to surrender." - Victor HugoDAII, Act 3: Manon reaches the breaking point and Fenris is the one who's there to pick her back up.





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Fic commissioned by louminx on tumblr.

Fenris felt more than heard the front door open, the pressure breaking against the pages of the book in his hands. He kept the windows open on nights like this, with the rain thrumming down against the roof and spattering the tile just under the sills. The fresh air could almost erase the staleness that clung to the furniture, could almost lift the anxiety that pitted in his stomach each time he expected her.

Manon knew she needn’t wait for his invitation, that the door would be unlocked, and Fenris would be sitting in his room next to the fire pretending this ‘normal’ was enough. They had done this so many times, it almost was. She removed her cloak and draped it over the bannister on her way up the stairs, not caring how much water pooled on the floor beneath it.

“You’re early,” he said without looking up.

Manon stepped toward the fire, reaching her hands out to warm them against the damp chill. “I wanted to make sure there was an equal share of the bottle tonight.” 

Fenris reached for the glass he’d poured her, catching the color of Manon’s dress in the soft light. He drew his eyes slowly upward; it was the same dress she’d worn their first night together - a twist in his heart in more ways than one.

He cleared his throat and offered Hawke the glass from where he sat, trying not to think of how easily he’d slipped the dress from her shoulders all those years ago.

Manon took it from his hands, noting the blush creeping up his neck as he avoided her gaze. “Am I not dressed to your liking, Fenris?” 

She had wanted the question to come out playful, without any doubt that she was dressed for any man’s liking. But the doubt managed to creep its way in anyway, and the question came out less as a statement and more of a plea - a need to feel worthy of what she wanted. 

Fenris brushed his bangs off to the side, busying his free hand as he tried to grasp for the words he should say rather than the ones he wanted to. Manon had always been beautiful. Even now, carrying the years in the thinness of her cheeks and the long nights of worry between her brows, even now she was beautiful to him. She always would be, but those words were not his to say. They hadn’t been for a long time.

“You’re not… cold?” It was a stupid reply, he knew, and not one nearly as worthy of her as he would have liked to offer. Words had never been his strong suit, especially when he was alone with the woman he loved and couldn’t have.

Manon gave a quick reply, covering herself up with a smile as she took a long draught of wine. The taste was familiar, and she warmed at the realization that she’d mentioned it was her favorite vintage, and that Fenris had remembered. “Tell me what you’re reading,” she said lightly, bringing her glass with her as she took a seat next to him.

—-

The rain had steadily become a downpour over the last few hours, with wind battering the shutters and sending in sheets of water through the windows. It was Manon who insisted they close all the windows in the mansion, “Batten the hatches as Isabela would say.”

She led the way through each room, a bottle in her hand as she went. They had been recounting their journeys outside Kirkwall, as they often did, but Manon had become more subdued in the telling tonight. Fenris knew it was from more than the wine. 

They were in one of the first floor corridors when Manon raised her hand to knock a stubborn window pane down with magic. After all these years, Fenris had accepted her magic, had accepted that it was part of what made her the woman he loved. He wouldn’t have been surprised by how she used it here, his attention on the window at the far end of the hall, but nothing happened. He turned his head and found Manon staring down at her upturned palms with a frown on her face. 

“Are you-”

Manon shoved the bottle into his hands and strode over to the window, intent on some hidden purpose. Her long fingers gripped the top on either side of the latch, pressing down into the wood that had warped around the glass. She brought her chest closer for leverage, urging the window to lower. Her frustration came out in muttering breaths as she shifted to brace a foot against the wall. Then Fenris was behind her, his arms reaching outside her own grip to clasp the wood next to her hands. Manon could feel the warmth of his chest and the strain of his muscles against her back as he added his effort to her own. 

“This one likes to stick.” It was matter-of-fact, but the way Fenris breathed the words out as he leaned into her made it feel like an embrace - and her heart turned on itself.  

Fenris leaned forward and angled his head against Manon’s to look at the jambs of wood. A large splinter blocked the path of the glass. “Stop pushing for a moment,” he whispered into her hair, and pulled out the piece of wood with his fingers. 

He put his hands gently atop Manon’s and guided the window smoothly down into place. Her skin was still as soft as he remembered, and Fenris let his forefinger drift nostalgically over hers. She was so close now, practically in his arms if not in his embrace, and her hair - it smelled of rainwater and roses.They stood that way for half a heartbeat, before Fenris realized what he was doing and took a step back. 

The night air came in to fill his place, an absence that left Manon feeling cold and wretched. It was what finally drove her to tears.

“Tell me,” was all he said to her.

“I should be able to do all of this on my own!” She was angry at herself, at how heavily she relied on magic to solve her problems, how it could solve all of them except the ones that mattered. “I shouldn’t _need_ magic! _No one_ should need it! It ruins everything!”

Fenris looked at Manon’s clenched fists and the red that had started to bloom around her eyes. This wasn’t about a window; it was about Anders. 

“The Circle says that our gift is a curse.” She took a step toward him, “And what if they’re right, Fenris? What if they’ve always been right?” 

_What if you’ve always been right?_ Manon didn’t have to say the words for Fenris to understand what she really meant, not in this case. It broke a piece of him to hear her echo what he’d said when they first met, to hear her agree with him. It was never what he’d wanted, not for her.

Manon saw his eyes soften with sadness, and it angered her as much as pleased her to see him watch her reaction with such tenderness. “Don’t pity me.” It was a half-hearted accusation, thrown away in an attempt to keep what little guard she had left. In truth, she was tired of keeping up appearances. She was tired of having to defend herself and every action she took. She was tired of feeling like nothing she did would ever matter, would ever change. Manon was tired of feeling lost.  She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, trying not to let the lonely sound of her emotions escape as she doubled over to weep into her hands.

Fenris placed a warm hand on her shoulder, urging Manon to look at him. He had been avoiding her gaze for most of the night, but now, she needed to be able to look into his eyes and see the truth for herself. “I pity only the weak, Manon. And you have never been that.” 

He let her in then, all of her, and she fell into his embrace willingly, holding on until her tears were spent. His arms held Manon close while Fenris brushed a hand through her hair to comfort her. It was all she wanted - to be held, to know someone was there for her when she couldn’t pick herself back up. Someone to remind her of what she once had, that the world needn’t be as dark as it had become, or that at least she needn’t be alone in it.

 

 

 

 


End file.
